


stars under catalonia

by koisurufortunecookie



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: F/F, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Military Dictatorship of Chile, Oh Boy I Fucked Up Historical Dates Real Bad, Spanish Civil War, Strap-Ons, Vaginal Sex, also ancom tops and it's impossible to change my mind, ancoms nb still but uses she/her, and commie thinks of her as a girl bc shes a lil behind the times, but do keep in mind IRL historical rape and torture are mentioned, even so ill toss some tags in here, in case youre sensitive to that, it's just lesbian sex while commie ruminates on leftist unity, not between the leftists!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24449848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koisurufortunecookie/pseuds/koisurufortunecookie
Summary: Commie and Ancom's relationship is... Complicated, to say the least. Their history intertwined so often, and didn't always have the prettiest record.That said, Commie knows she probably shouldn't be thinking about the particulars of their unity while she has a naked Ancom on top of her, but she's never been all that good at reeling her thoughts back at the best of times.
Relationships: Ancom/Commie, Left Unity
Comments: 7
Kudos: 79





	stars under catalonia

**Author's Note:**

> no update main fic. i write lesbian political ideologies fucking and having badly timed flashbacks now.
> 
> so, uh, before anything else i need to state that i SUPER MESSED UP some historical timeline shit but i only realized after i'd written it and this would have been massively challenging to alter so um, this fic takes place in the AU where everything is the same but the spanish civil war took place before makhnovia was annexed by the ussr. 
> 
> anyways, you read the tags, you know what you're getting into. lesbian leftist unity and repressed feelings. and strap ons. apologies in advance for my google translate russian and let's go boysssssss.

It had taken Commie a while to realize it, but Ancom had really warm hands.

Such a thing was obvious now with the way the anarchist’s fingers danced over Commie’s most intimate areas, practiced digits sliding in and out of her heat while the authoritarian tried to keep her moans and gasps quiet enough so as to not awaken their rightist housemates, but she’d actually noticed it for the first time last week when Ancom had insisted on helping her warm up after Commie had returned from her morning jog to report that the brisk autumn air had done a number to her exposed skin. The smaller girl had taken Commie’s hands, large for a girl and calloused from years of manual labour, into her own much smaller pair, and the communist had realized how quickly her entire body warmed from just that touch alone. Ancom was like that, spreading the warmth wherever she appeared.

Ancom. Ancom, like her in so many ways. A duo of women who had hearts too big for their bodies, too big for a capitalist system to understand, too big to be able to bear witness to the devastation and exploitation of the world without screaming out in rage and sorrow. The sound that escape’s Commie’s throat now, though, is one of solely pleasure as Ancom curves a finger inside her to grind down on a sweet spot with her knuckle, and the taller woman kicks aside the tangled sheets of her bed as she leans up to pull the anarchist in for a passionate kiss. Ancom’s lips are salty with the sweat amassed from the hours the pair had spent idly tangled up in each other as they lounged in Ancom’s bed, but some of the day’s strawberry lip gloss still remains despite the authoritarian being fairly sure she was probably wearing more of it at this point than the pigtailed girl ever was. Commie slinks one of her own hands down to slide between Ancom’s legs, and the girl moans into her mouth, pulling back briefly to take a breath. “God, Tankie, you’re so fucking hot.”

Ancom’s tanned skin is flushed, green eyes blown out and unfocused, and the sight of how truly fucked-out the other woman looked sent a pang of fire down through Commie’s spine before settling between her legs. “I know.”

Laughing hazily, Ancom leans back in to continue the kiss, the leftists tangling in a mess of limbs and roaming fingers on a journey to get as many sweet noises as they could from the other. It was rewarding to spend time around Ancom, whether it be like this or whether it was more of a platonic experience. Their unity was a curious thing, especially compared to their other options- it seemed like Ancom (wisely) kept Ancap at an emotional arms’ length despite their shared love for going on wild benders together, and it would be a cold day in hell when Commie forgot her time-honoured tradition of shooting Nazis in favour of siding with the fascist. Perhaps it was because of their history as two deeply historically repressed and anti-capitalist ideologies that ensured they’d found themselves intertwined so often throughout the decades.

_ (“Y’know, we can probably get you some more weather-appropriate clothes if you want. You look sweaty.” _

_ Commie looked up from the bolt parts of her Mosin Nagant, blinking in surprise. She’d been hunkered down in a fairly private corner of the building sequestered by Republican forces, looking to get a few moments of precious thinking time as she cleaned her primary weapon. It was ritual at this point, particularly with how often she’d been repeatedly demonstrating to individual anarchists how to maintain the guns she and the other Soviets had brought from Moscow. She hadn’t expected to be found, much less by one of the Spaniards speaking perfect Russian.  _

_ The girl looked too young to be fighting here, no older than her late teens, and that fact was only emphasized by the way green ribbons held thick, shoulder length black hair into low pigtails. Like most of the other anarchists, her black and red side cap sat atop her head, a few cigarettes sticking out of the fold. Her work jumpsuit looked too big for her, baggy pant legs tucked into men’s work boots, and the M1916 hanging over her shoulder swung gently as she rocked on her heels. “Hey, you hear me? You really do look like you’re overheating.” _

_ Finding her words again as the realization of who she was likely talking to, Commie offered up a small smile, shaking her head and responding in Spanish. “That’s a kind offer, but no thank you. As long as I’m here to train, this uniform indicates my status.” It was admittedly a bit stuffy in the pilotka and military skirtsuit, but Commie wanted to maintain order, which would be hard to do if she looked like any other Republican soldier in the heat of battle.  _

_ The girl shrugged, swaggering over and taking a seat across from Commie on some empty munitions boxes. “We don’t really need that sort of hierarchy here, but as long as you’re teaching my comrades how to kill fascists, I can bear it.” Reaching into the pocket of her jumpsuit, the anarchist produced a small bread roll (was that just floating around in there?) before breaking it in half and offering part to Commie. “As a thank you.” _

_ Commie blinked in surprise a few times before shaking her head, long wavy red hair long since let down after the heat of battle and now flowing wildly around her shoulders. “Ah, that’s not necessary, I have my own-“ _

_ “Hey, it’s mutual aid. I had a big lunch earlier, I’m not gonna eat the whole thing.” Gesturing with the bread again, the girl stared expectantly until Commie gave in and accepted, reaching forward to pluck the rations from her hand. Once the communist had started eating, the anarchist sat back, stretching her arms a little. “So I’ve seen you around, but I don’t think I know your name yet.” _

_ With the inexplicable Russian fluency and knowing swagger about her, this girl almost certainly knew what was up. Taking her time chewing, Commie thinks of the best way to formulate this. “Well, the current name on my papers labels me Tatiana Kolganova. But I’m alright with being called Marxist-Leninism, should you prefer.” _

_ The girl’s green eyes light up as she grins, and something in Commie’s chest stirs. “I had a feeling that’s who you were. Right now I’m going by Federica Sanchez, but Anarcho-Communism is good too.” _

_ “That’s a bit of a mouthful. Just your civilian name for now?” _

_ “It’ll keep people off our backs. As long as it means I can call you by yours, then sure.” _

_ Commie smiles, reaching forward with the hand not holding bread. “You may. I look forward to fighting with you,  _ товарищ _ Federica.” _

_ “Let’s try and hold onto these aliases for a while.” Sticking out her hand in return, Ancom takes Commie’s hand in her own before shaking heartily. “Let’s bury some fascists,  _ Señora _ Tatiana!” _

_ She should have noticed the first time they touched. Ancom had warm hands.) _

Ancom scissors her fingers inside her, and Commie is moaning out loud before she can help herself, hips thrusting forwards for more involuntarily. The anarchist giggles, and Commie almost embarrassedly tells her to shut it before she curls her fingers in a way that makes her buck upwards. “F-Fuck, Anarkiddy-“

“You like that?” Ancom’s breath is hot on Commie’s ear, the other girl’s heartbeat pounding through both their chests as their bodies press together. The smaller girl brings the hand not currently buried between Commie’s legs up to toy with one of the authoritarian’s breasts, and Commie swears she might just die right there. “I could listen to you squeal all day, so fucking hot. You just melt for me, don’t you?”

Goddamn, this girl is going to be the death of her. Pulling back her hands to grip Ancom by the shoulders and hold her back a little, Commie is fully aware of how fucked-out and desperate she must look in this moment. However, this far into things, she also realizes she doesn’t give a shit. “Fuck me already, you goddamn liberal.”

Ancom’s puzzled expression breaks into a huge grin, and she pulls her fingers out agonizingly slowly before sitting up and sliding sideways off the bed. “No matter how many times you call me a lib, it still won’t be true. Maybe I’ll just leave you all worked up and desperate if you keep up like that.”

Taking a moment to catch her breath and sit up, Commie shakes her head. “You’re just as turned on too. You wouldn’t.”

“Maybe so.” Laughing breathily, Ancom moves for her bedside table, opening it up and rustling through. “Do you think you’ll need lube?”

Rolling her eyes, Commie huffs as Ancom produces a strap from inside, fitting it over her hips. “You just had your fingers in me down to the knuckle. Did that feel like someone who needs more lubricant?”

“Just checking, just checking.” While Ancom secures her strap, Commie scoots on the mattress to sit with her back against the wall, legs spread open while one hand slid down to play with herself. Despite apparently having what Ancap called ‘bottom energy’, Commie was very aware that Ancom was strictly against being penetrated with anything past fingers or tongues. Not that she could blame her- she had her own fair share of rules when it came to bed. If she was bottoming, she staunchly refused to be facing away from her partner, and that was  _ very _ seriously enforced- a few months ago during a tipsy fling, Commie had up and walked out on Nazi after the woman attempted to take her with her face down in the pillow. In this way, they were perfect for each other- they were both deeply aware of the other one’s hangups, both very knowledgeable on why they were so selective.

_ (“Don’t bother setting it.” _

_ “But if that heals wrong-“ _

_ “It doesn’t matter when we won’t be alive for much longer, does it?” _

_ Ancom cringes at the harshness of her response, and Commie instantly feels bad. The anarchist was attempting to use a broken plastic food tray and some strips of fabric torn from her own long peasant skirt to set the communist’s right arm, which was bending at an altogether incorrect angle. Commie doesn’t actually think breaking it was the intent of the guard- a few unlucky (or lucky, depending on how you looked at it) prisoners in this sporting arena-turned-torture camp had died already after broken limbs turned septic in the filthy conditions, and they’re being kept alive for as long as they possibly could. She’d been yanked off the table after being waterboarded, still gasping desperately for air and unable to see with her matted hair stuck to her soaked face, and she’d just rolled right off and onto her elbow.  _

_ And now they’re in their current predicament, huddled in the corner of the room (a changeroom once upon a time, Commie thinks) to get a little bit of privacy from the tens of other suspected communists strewn out on threadbare blankets on the hard floor. Ancom bites her lip, putting the MacGyvered supplies down and folding her hands in her lap. Her fingernails are black as night, probably as a result of the electric torture, and Commie knows the smaller woman is probably hiding more burns under her stained blouse and increasingly torn up skirt. She knows she is as well, subconsciously avoiding letting her dirty clothes touch the broken, burnt skin where alligator clips attached to jumper cables once bit. The anarchist speaks quietly. “We’ll come back. We always do.” _

_ It was true- ideologies didn’t really die, not if they had people who wholeheartedly believed in them. They’d come back in time, walking the earth with the same face that had been thrown in some mass grave only months prior. God, Commie knew that she and Ancom had been the ones putting bullets in the other’s head or tossing explosives inside windows before- and yet, here they were, nursing each others’ wounds like injured puppies. Reaching back with her unbroken arm (good thing she was left handed), Commie brushed some of her greasy red hair off her shoulders. God, the Chilean heat was unbearable. “We do. All the more reason to save them for those who won’t.” _

_ Ancom nods grimly, staring down at her ruined hands. “It’s… It’s been bad for us with fascists before, but they’ve never gone so far as to…” _

_ “I know.” Perhaps it makes her a coward, but Commie knows she can’t let Ancom finish what she’s saying. She knows what the fascist boy’s club mentality does to soldiers who have power over women, knows they’re both seen as subhuman communists anyways, knows that she’s almost fearful to clean between her legs whenever she’s given the rare opportunity to bathe or shower now in fear of what one touch might trigger. She doesn’t know if Pinochetism knows the civilian names they’ve been imprisoned under, but it would explain the brutality in their treatment- squeeze in as much humiliation as possible before their inevitable ends. Commie also knows that soldiers who did this sort of thing to women back in her army were shot as soon as they were found out. Now it seems like the ones who made a big show about how they left her naked and half-conscious only rose up in ranks. Of course it was happening to Ancom too, but…  _

_ Yeah, she is a coward. She just doesn’t want the smaller girl (and even after all these years of knowing each other, she feels so very young, doesn’t she?) to say it out loud. Perhaps then the brutal truth of what the humans they ostensibly exist to serve are capable of doing becomes too real. _

_ Swallowing hard, Commie shifts a little closer to Ancom, the anarchist following suit without being told, and both women sat quietly for a moment with only a few inches between them. The dark haired girl opens and closes her mouth in several false starts before seemingly finding her words. “... Remember when we were stargazing in Catalonia?” _

_ It takes a moment, but a small smile breaks onto Commie’s face as the memory flickers. “I do. We were camped out in the ruined schoolhouse with the hole in the roof.” _

_ Nodding, Ancom’s chapped lips break into a playful grin. “And you were all paranoid that someone was going to chuck a bomb through it.” _

_ “It was a reasonable fear!” _

_ “Pfft, nobody knew we were there.” Laughing a little, Ancom’s eyes shift slightly, the anarchist A briefly visible amidst green irises. “We could see so many constellations. Spain’s not like that now, with all this pollution and shit. But it was beautiful back then.” _

_ Commie remembers the breathtaking stars over Spain, yes. But more than that, she remembers Ancom pressed into her side and pointing out each train of stars in quiet whispers so as not to wake up any of the other sleeping revolutionaries. Even in a warzone, things had felt… Peaceful. Like this was where she belonged. “I haven’t seen the sky in weeks.” _

_ Ancom pauses, like she’s not sure about something, before reaching forwards to brush Commie’s hand with her own. “... Once all this is over, let’s go stargazing. Doesn’t matter where we go, but I want to see the stars with you again. A nostalgia trip, or something.” _

_ There’s a painful yearning in Commie’s heart, one that she has to squash down with every last piece of strength she has. There’s only one way this sort of feeling can end in her case, a series of ideas and hopes and ambitions molded into the shape of the humans who dreamed of her, and it’s a mess of tears and blood. Instead of following her mind’s pleas to close the distance between their lips, Commie instead opts to run her fingers over Ancom’s scraped knuckles. “I think I would like that very much.” _

_ The smaller girl’s face breaks into a shaky smile. “I’ll hold you to it, ‘kay?” _

_ In two humiliating weeks, they’d both be dead. Commie would go first, the disorientation from the bag over her head thankfully preventing her from fully comprehending the terror of her own execution in the agonizing seconds she spent between an open helicopter door and the hard ground. She never asked Ancom what became of her in the end, and the other girl never shared. Some things weren’t anyone else’s business, and they both had their hands full the second they eventually reformed.  _

_ They never got around to that stargazing.) _

Therapists weren’t really much of an option when your pain encompassed that of an entire repressed ideology, which means Commie has to wrestle her mind back from highly inconvenient memories when having sex more often than not. Healthy? Probably not, although she has her suspicions she’s far from the only ideology with a few broken mental wires. 

But then Ancom is laying her out with great care on her back (despite barely reaching five feet tall, the anarchist demonstrated shocking strength- not surprising from someone regularly holding barricades and smashing car windows, really), positioning herself between her legs before pushing a lock of Commie’s hair back to nibble at her ear, and the authoritarian melts, arms wrapping around the other girl’s shoulders and holding tight. Though there was no way to tell whether or not Ancom was being gentle because she detected some mental fluctuation, it was nice to imagine that she was, and so Commie did. In any case, the anarchist murmured softly, her breath hot on the taller woman’s ear. “You good if I…?”

Nodding frantically, Commie was certain that she herself was reflecting the haze in Ancom’s eyes as she moved upwards to position herself, hands holding the authoritarian’s knees apart before gently beginning to push in. The contact makes Commie bite back an embarrassing whimper, the type she’d only ever let out in front of Ancom in bed, but the anarchist seems more interested in fucking her than teasing, as she snaps her hips forwards in a way that makes that whimper turn into a full-blown moan. Ancom laughs breathily, the toy’s friction on the wearer’s end clearly doing something for her physically. “Shit, you should make that noise more often. Cutie.”

“I’m not cute, I’m-  _ Haaah! _ ” Commie’s protest against the label was cut off by a gasp as Ancom took the opportunity to sink fully inside of her, each ridge of the toy hitting the communist in a way that sent shockwaves up her spine, and she was wrapping her legs around the anarchist’s hips involuntarily, hands tightening on her shoulders.  _ “Боже мой _ , Ancom,  _ больше, больше _ -”

“See? You are cute. I fucked you right into Russian.” Before Commie has time to roll her eyes at that statement, Ancom’s hands are moving, one to steady her hip as the thrusts continue, one to toy with the authoritarian’s clit, and Commie is a babbling mess again. The fact that she was already reduced to her mother tongue was embarrassing, or at least it would be if they hadn’t spent the entire morning engaged in what amounted to foreplay. The need between her legs was being met, the silicon of the toy and the warmth of Ancom’s hips hitting hers overwhelming her as her body moved to meet each thrust.

Commie allowed herself to fall into a rhythm, a mess of skin on skin, lips on lips, breathy moans and gasps between the two accidentally synching up more than once. Pleas and coos and words of praise in so many languages fell from both their lips, back and forth,  _ дорогой _ ,  _ milyaket, 더 빠른, buena niña,  _ lost in a flood as their minds tried and failed to get out more than moans that were almost certainly going to get them an earful from Nazi over later. But in that moment, all that mattered to Commie is that Ancom was there, so warm, so real, so  _ hers _ , together, together-

Ancom hits at a certain angle, and Commie’s eyes roll back into her head, world whiting out in a mess of stars as her long-delayed orgasm washes over her entire body like a tidal wave crashing into the shore, and she digs her nails into the anarchist’s back with a moan that left her throat like a war cry.

...

_ (“You-  _ you-  _ of all people are accusing  _ me _ of hero worship?!” _

_ Ancom met Commie’s incredulous stare with an angry snarl. Their argument was stupid- they all were. She didn’t even remember how it started. Some little difference in their theory had lead to some snippy back and forth which had in turn spiralled into a shouting match in the kitchen. “You fucking march all your dictator’s faces around on banners and flags, praise totalitarian regimes! Leaders on my end never starved millions for no reason!” _

_ This imbecile, this  _ **_child._ ** _ “The famine genocide lie has been factually disproven ten thousand times over and you still have the gall to spread Nazi’s propaganda just to kneecap me for no reason at all! And you want to talk about what happened in Ukraine-“ _

_ “I do! I absolutely do!” Ancom stomped forwards, pupils dilating almost like a cat’s as she jammed a finger accusingly into Commie’s chest. “Fucking rolling your army into anarchist territory, just another imperalist oppressive piece of-“ _

_ It’s like a string breaks in Commie’s mind, and she’s grabbing Ancom by the shoulders and  _ **_roaring_ ** _ , pining her against the wall with a bang. A photo frame hanging a few feet away shakes and falls before shattering on the ground, exploding into dangerous bits and pieces just as Commie did the same. “The Makhnovists committed  _ pogroms _! Лицемерная сука, accusing me of oppression while chain-ganging peasants who wouldn’t work and looting neighbours wildly! But I suppose I’m the evil dictator for refusing to let it happen anymore, am I?! All of your revolutions used  _ my  _ tactics,  _ my _ labour camps,  _ my _ secret police,  _ my _ forcible collectivizations, and you hide it and crow about how you’re so humane! You’re worse than me, and you know what,  _ Ancom _?” _

_ Something in her pleas to stop it, back off, you made your point, Ancom’s trying to get away, but Commie has never once been able to stop herself once she got started on something- always rolling, gaining more and more momentum up until the supernova of a crash. She pulls the frantically squirming girl in closer, hands tightening around the shoulders of her hoodie until her knuckles go white and she can see her ice cold reflection in Ancom’s terrified eyes, before seething out her words. “You know the old line. ‘When our turn comes, we shall not make excuses for the terror’. I don’t hide the truth of who I am. I don’t put on a mask like you to get popular. It’s why I make the world quake in their boots while you’re resigned to history’s footnotes. Quit pretending you aren’t just as brutal, that you don’t have blood you can’t ever wash from your hands. Maybe then you can have a story worth telling.” _

_ Ancom’s face is a mix of fear, shock, and… Something else. Commie can’t place it, but she gets the feeling it might never leave the smaller girl again. Fuck. She feels the guilt start to pool in her gut, and she’s out of the room, releasing Ancom and storming by her before nearly knocking over an incensed looking Ancap in the hallway to her room. The capitalist shouts something angry about the broken photo at her, but Commie’s ears are ringing too heavily to understand a goddamn thing as she fumbles with the key to her room, forcing her way inside and stumbling for the closet that hid row upon row of vodka bottles behind thick coats and uniforms. _

_ Goddammit, why couldn’t she have shut her fucking mouth? She’d gone too far, as always. Always running herself into the ground. But she’d said it herself- she was never the type to make excuses for the terror. Not in Russia, in Cuba, in the DPRK, and certainly not in this house. _

_ Time to drink about it.) _

“You good?”

Commie’s eyes refocus, and it hits her that Ancom is snuggled up next to her, strap on abandoned on the floor next to the bed (and she knew the anarchist wasn’t foolish enough not to clean her toys after use, but still, jeez). That… She’d been floating back to three days prior. Now of all times? That fight must have fucked her up more than she’d originally thought. The emotional high of an orgasm meeting with the emotional low of a vicious argument. Neither one had formally apologized or even mentioned it again- they’d just gone two days without speaking before Ancom casually approached Commie with the announcement that they were on dinner duty that night, and the authoritarian had breathed a figurative sigh of relief as it appeared that neither she nor Ancom had any interest in discussing exactly what had gone down or why Ancap now had a new print by the dining room entrance to replace the shattered photo.

In any case, she nods, wrapping an arm around the anarchist’s shoulder. “Very. Just a bit dazed.”

Ancom snickers, pressing a kiss to Commie’s jawline as she settles comfortably up against her, skin still so very warm. “What can I say? I’m just that good.”

“Sure, sure.” Laughing under her breath, Commie holds the smaller girl in a comfortable silence, though the residual smile on her face fades as her mind starts to demand they return to the prior fight. It wasn’t the worst they’d had, not even close- nobody’s headquarters were up in flames this time around, everyone’s brains were inside their heads- but it was definitely the nastiest they’d had since moving into the damn kulak’s place. Even with the rightists to argue with and the shared goal of the Centricide, they’d gotten up in each other’s faces over the exact same things they always did.

Would it always be like this?

It seemed likely. Commie held Ancom now, both women comfortable and at peace, but… Perhaps Ancom knew it, too. Knew that one day, someone’s blood would be on the floor, spread out by gun or bat. Who would turn on the other first? Commie on Ancom, the anarchist threatening the safety of the revolution too much to justify allowing her to live? Ancom on Commie, the communist proving controlling enough to ensure she’d need to be taken out before any real progress could be made? Who would play Judas in the next movement, or better yet, Pontus Pilate, ordering another to do the job and washing her hands of the blood of someone else’s heroine? Or would they eat each other alive, the rightists rising in power while sectarianism doomed the planet to a slow death under the destructive capitalist productive forces?

“Seriously, are you legit okay? You’ve been, like, really spacey today.” 

Ancom nudges her, and Commie bites her lip to avoid squeaking in surprise. She… Well, the anarchist wasn’t wrong. Not like this was something she could exactly explain to her, though. Perhaps Ancom also laid awake pondering the inevitable betrayal, but this wasn’t something that should be brought up in post-coitus bliss. Instead, Commie looks to the wall before crimson eyes flicker down to the smaller girl. “... Ancom, are you free tonight?”

“Uh, I think so.” The anarchist cocked her head, pigtails flopping about. “Why?”

“I was thinking maybe we could go stargazing.” Commie blurts it out before she can convince herself to shut up. “The kulak gets pissy when we’re on the roof, but we can sneak out my window without her noticing. I know the skies aren’t so clear in the city, but…”

She trails off, confidence waning. Their relationship was… Well, comrades with benefits. They weren’t the same innocent girls in Catalonia, the haunted survivors in Chile. Stargazing was generally reserved for people who hadn’t ever doomed the other to die, friends who didn’t represent something as volatile as left-wing politics in the era of Neoliberalism’s death cries. Was Ancom just interested in having someone to fuck who already understood her hangups after Pinochetism destroyed them both? Would she even-

Ancom cups the side of her face, and Commie blinks as she notices the softest smile she’s ever seen outside of wartime on the anarchist’s face. It was the kind of thoughtful look that Ancom once wore as they stood together over Spain, having chased the fascists back again, an emotion Commie couldn’t place but that made her heart jump anyways. “I’d like that. I’d love that, actually. I have more constellations I didn’t get to tell you about last time.”

… She remembered the stars under Catalonia, too.

One day, there might be war. But as Commie smiles, as the two move into a kiss that felt as natural as taking a breath, as Ancom’s warm hands hold her face like there’s something worth loving there, perhaps they can dare to imagine something new.

Was it not their hearts that swelled with hope at the thought of a better world, after all, that made them who they were?

**Author's Note:**

> can u tell i want left unity to work really bad irl
> 
> anyways, i hope you enjoyed! i'd really appreciate it if you dropped a kudos or comment letting me know what you think. see you soon!


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